The Hand's Tournament
by Monkey Ninja Naf S'netog
Summary: Tyrion just becomes the Hand of the King, and is not content to sit idly by and watch the realm bleed. With a stroke of luck, a bit of genius, and a bucketfull of cunning, Tyrion envisions a different way to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms.


Tyrion allowed himself a crooked grin, setting the quill aside. His chambers were dark, a single tallow candle on his desk giving him the light he required. _Cersei will rage, Father will scoff, Kings will laugh, and all will do as they're bid_. Tyrion gave a small chuckle as he rolled the five messages into separate, tight bundles, finally giving them each the King's seal. _The realm will call it a mummer's farce, the Imp's folly, or something just as ignorant. But none will know the true terms. None will know the results. The _gods_ will decide. _Tyrion's mouth twisted into an even bigger grin as he swept the five bundles into one hand from the desk and hopped from his chair.

Taking the candle from his desk, the dwarf waddled out of his room, Bronn falling into step beside him. "Going for a moon night stroll, your Handness?" the large man asked mockingly.

"I'm going for much more than that," Tyrion replied, brandishing the messages in his right hand. "I'm going for a victory lap, a final attack, and a scouting mission all at once. What I do tonight may very well save the Seven Kingdoms."

Bronn looked down at the man, an eyebrow raised. "That's too bad," he commented.

"Oh?" Tyrion muttered, surprised, "and why is that, might I ask?"

"Sellswords do better in a time of war," Bronn answered with a smirk. Tyrion plunged on regardless, taking the steps one at a time.

_Jape all you want,_ Tyrion thought with glee, _Kings and Queens alike will flock to my brainchild. And when they do, I will no longer be the Imp. I will be Tyrion the Kingmaker, Tyrion the Peacemaker, Tyrion the Reconciler, anything but Tyrion the Imp._

When they finally arrived at Pycelle's door, Tyrion had Bronn bash on it unceremoniously, and was rewarded with a croak of alarm from within. Within a minute, a disheveled looking Grand Maester stood before him, looking half asleep, the other half of him looking old and withered. Tyrion gave the man a taste of his evil eye, turning his head slightly and his black eye caught the light. The old man stumbled back as Tyrion pushed forward, until finally both he and his sellsword were in the room. Bronn closed the large door behind them.

"Maester Pycelle," Tyrion greeted amiably, his grin as wide as ever. This seemed to startle the old Maester again, but he managed to complete the exchange of courtesies.

"My lord Hand," Pycelle said, bowing, "how may I be of service?"

"I have four urgent messages to be sent immediately. In fact, I'll watch you do it. I'm always fascinated by the duties of a Maester." Tyrion moved towards the stairway that led to the rookery. Reluctantly, the Maester followed, Bronn right behind him.

Once Tyrion ascended into the raven's nest, the musty smell of bird shit and straw hit his nose, making him grimace. Tyrion handed one message to Pycelle, keeping an eye on the man. "That one is for Dragonstone."

"D-Dragonstone, my lord?" Pycelle stuttered, staring at the scroll as if it were on fire.

"Yes, are you going deaf in your old age? Get on with it. I would like to be back in bed before the sun rises." Tyrion's words were harsh, but he required obedience, not probing inquiries.

As soon as the raven was off, Tyrion handed the next message to the Maester. "This one is for Riverrun."

Pycelle looked as if her were about to feint. "R-R-Riverrun?"

"Yes, you old fool, to Riverrun," Tyrion snarled. Would he question him about each one?

The raven took flight within minutes, and Tyrion held up the next one. "Highgarden."

The old man knew better than to hesitate or speak this time, and the raven was soon gone. "Lastly," Tyrion whispered, staring at the parchment, "Pyke." As the Maester busied himself, Tyrion let another Raven fly. The old man didn't seem to notice.

At last, the messages were in flight. He was on his way to performing the single greatest act of his life. Examining Pycelle, Tyrion remarked, "Of course, none of this is of any importance, Grand Maester. Should I find any premature word of this to reach my ear, I'll have Shagga feed your manhood to a goat. He's quite fond of that, and I daresay he's been getting bored lately." Pycelle, somehow, grew visibly paler, before bobbing his head in understanding.

"Then I bid you good night, Maester Pycelle,"

0000

It only took a few days before the consequences of what he had done came crashing down on him.

"You put Joffrey's seal on this… _this…_" Cersei stuttered with rage, holding up a letter, practically shoving it up his nose. Tyrion had just sat upon the Iron Throne, preparing for the day's proceedings while Joffrey practiced with his new crossbow, when Cersei stormed in.

"Mummer's farce?" Tyrion offered helpfully, suppressing a grin. _Maybe if I get the names out of the way, we can get down to the details._

"Yes," Cersei agreed hotly, letting go of the parchment and turning away from him furiously. "Read it, Imp. _Aloud_, so I can hear the foolish response from my foolish brother."

With a dramatic clearing of his throat, Tyrion held the message before him, eyeing the words greedily, "Lannister filth, we appreciate the offer to humiliate you as thoroughly and publicly as possible, but we must decline your invitation. However, out of the good will you have shown us, we will agree to halt all mobilization and warfare until your pompous tourney is over. Signed King in the North." Tyrion looked up, cocking an eyebrow. "What's the problem?"

"They've insulted us to our _face_," Cersei seethed, snatching the letter from Tyrion, and then proceeding to crumple it in her fist.

Smiling a crooked smile, Tyrion clucked his tongue, explaining, "You're missing the most important part of the message. They've stopped warring."

"To regroup, you imbecile!"

Tyrion could have laughed, but it would only serve to anger his sister all the more. "Do not worry. They will show up."

Cersei froze. "Show… _show up_? I don't give a dragon's ass if they show up to your fool's parade!" She looked as if she were ready to strike him.

"Sweet sister," Tyrion sighed, slumping in the Iron Chair, careful not to impale himself on its many barbs, "you will thank me for this when it's all over. We will have peace in the Seven Kingdoms."

The tall, golden-haired Queen glared at him coldly, before turning away in a swirl of emerald green, a long trail gliding behind her dress as she departed. He smirked after her. She was too blinded by rage to even ask what the "good will" they mentioned was.

Tyrion had ordered all Lannister aggressions to cease until the end of the Tournament, warning of any violence to be treated as treason. His lord father had agreed to go along with it if he could get the others to do so, as well. So far, it was working.

"One down, three to go."

0000

The next three letters were much of the same, each agreeing to stop any aggressions, with only Renly agreeing to attend the Tournament. Fortunately, it was all a ruse on their part… trying to act tough in the face of their only recourse. Tyrion had them by the balls, and he knew it.

Tyrion ascended the steps to the high born prison rooms, prepared to finally meet his captives. First up: Arya Stark.

As soon as he was inside the room, he was attacked. A brown blur hit him square in the chest, knocking the breath from him, causing him to lose his balance. His arms flailed out to his sides, pinwheeling as he tried to regain his balance. His efforts were futile, and he crashed onto his back, out in the flat landing between ascending and descending stairwells. The moment he was on his back, the brown blur was streaking from the room – only to be caught up by Bronn. _Thank the gods I never let the man out of my sight_.

"Why, aren't you a feisty brat?" the sellsword laughed, one armed wrapped around the Stark girl's torso, the other holding her in a headlock.

"Let me _go_, you _stupid_!" wailed the girl as she thrashed in his arms. Bronn only laughed the harder.

Tyrion coughed, letting his lungs fill with air, and laboriously returned to his feet and brushed himself off.

"This one had Chella, daughter of Cheyk, roaring in delight the whole way back to King's Landing. They found her wandering in the woods with some smith's apprentice, a fat child, a screaming two year old, and a crippled boy. The wolf girl bit off one of Chella's clansmen's ears, earning herself a place of honor in the Black Ears legends. Eareater, they called her." Tyrion smiled his crooked smile, examining his prize. This definitely was the girl he'd seen back in Winterfell, all the way down to her boyish features and dirt encrusted fingernails. He'd heard that she wouldn't let any maids come near her to make her a proper little lady.

"You left Lommy!" she accused, glaring down at the dwarf, her limbs now hanging loosely, defeated.

"I most certainly did not!" Tyrion protested, "Why, I was never there at all." This did not appease the girl, and she began thrashing again.

Bronn jerked her slightly, making her stop. "Do that again, girl, and you'll find yourself in a world of hurt."

"Promise to be a good little wolf and we'll let you down," Tyrion offered.

She wrinkled her nose, but then she hung her head, defeated. Finally, she nodded. Bronn began to set her down, but Tyrion knew better. "Hold it, Bronn. In the room, if you please." At that, the girl began thrashing again, but Bronn didn't make good on his threat. Once inside the chamber, Tyrion closed the door and locked it, only then giving the okay for Bronn to set her down.

"You've grown since I've last seen you," Tyrion commented. She only glared back at him.

"You haven't."

Bronn laughed at that, "She got you there." Tyrion was far beyond being insulted by short jokes at this stage in his life. He found he actually enjoyed making them, when the right opportunity arose.

"I heard you threw a terrible tantrum back when my… associates… captured you. Something about a sword?" Tyrion probed.

"_Needle_," she fumed, "they stole it from me! My brother gave it to me, it's _mine_!"

"Indeed it is," Tyrion acquiesced,"and it will be returned to you-"

Her eyes squinted in suspicion, but had a glimmer of hope.

"-if you promise to be more compliant." She wrinkled her nose again, and looked like she was about to refuse. "I've been giving you all the hospitality that your station permits and I'm willing to do this boon for you, even allow you to practice with it _under supervision_. All you have to do is stop fighting everyone on everything. Of course, when I say it will be returned to you, I mean only when you are permitted to go outside for exercise. You will be watched by no less than five knights at all times outside of your cell, and the Master of Arms will assist you in your practice. These are my terms. If you agree, you must understand that one step out of line, and you will be returned to your cell until I return you to your family."

Now, she looked confused. Tyrion grinned, turning on his heels and walking to the door. He could hear Bronn following. Once he unlocked the door, he turned his head and looked back, "Just be patient, my lady, and you will see your mother again."

"What about my _father_," she said between grit teeth.

Tyrion was genuinely sad for her, and shook his head, "Not even the King's Hand can undo the King's follies." With that, he left.

Suddenly, he was tired. The others could wait – Asha Greyjoy, taken literally by storm just as she was sailing near the Cape of Eagles, and Shireen Baratheon and her fool, smuggled gently enough out of Dragonstone. The smuggler swore up and down he was a King's man to the bone, and that's why he betrayed his liege lord. But Tyrion knew the possibility of rewards from the richest family in the Seven Kingdoms wasn't a bad incentive, either. It was too bad he had other plans for him.

With these three captives in his care, Tyrion felt that if there were gods, they were finally on his side.

"You're one devious bastard, Imp," Bronn complimented as they descended the steps.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Tyrion assured him.

0000

The stadium was being erected south of God's Eye Lake, in a wide open space bordering the water. The massive structure would be a half-circle, each edge of the incomplete circle extending out over the water. High wooden walls would separate the audience from the battles happening in the cleared area below them, the trees felled for just this purpose. An archway would be the only entry and exit into the stadium floor, unless one were to swim around the thick forest of wooden poles holding the sections of stadium over the water.

_Fat chance if they're in armor, _he thought. Despite the responses he got from the other three "kings" he was continuing as planned. He knew they would show up once he made his offers. The winner of the tourney would win their intended hostages, and a nice sum of gold to boot. Not to mention that this Tournament allowed for a brief period of peace.

_Robb Stark has Theon Greyjoy, my brother, Jaime, and other Lannisters._ _In order to be eligible to win his sisters, he must agree to bring them as part of the pot. Renly had no hostages to give or take, but would come for the glory, not the reward. Stannis will come for his daughter, as is his duty. Balon will come for the only children he has left. We will go for Jaime. And even then, no one will expect-_

Shae stirred beside him, and he looked over to his right, and he nestled his face into her black curls. Even when he went to take his mind off of being the King's Hand, he constantly thought about his plans. He couldn't help it. So much was riding on the success of the tournament.

On the morrow, he would send word to Stannis that his daughter was safe, taken by a smuggler to prove he was Joffrey's man through and through. In the letter he will tell him that his daughter and the traitor will be at the tournament. To Pyke, he would send word of Asha's rescue from terrible storms that had overtaken her vessel. She would attend the tourney, as would her brother, if Balon would attend as well.

Then to Robb Stark, he would send his terms. No matter the outcome of the Tournament, if they were willing, Jaime was worth the two Stark girls. Tyrion figured that Lady Catelyn would strong-arm her son into agreeing.

Everything was in place. All the highest lords would be attending the Tournament. All the highest lords would witness the greatest melee ever, all in Tyrion's name. And, of course, Tyrion's ace in the hole would appear.

_Let the Game begin_, Tyrion thought confidently.

0000

**The timeline is a little off, but it's not too big a deal. The only thing that hasn't happened at this point in time in canon is Balon's second rebellion. So let's just say he's crowned himself a bit early.**

**I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and I hope there are many more to come. Feel free to review and tell me what you think will happen, or tell me how much you hate it, or how much you like it. Whatever you like. **_**Valar Morghulis.**_


End file.
